


Sweatin’ Cola

by JacksHorriblePA



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arcade hates the desert, Arcade is done 24/7, Bad Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mental Health Issues, khans are a nuisance and soda-sweat is real, the courier’s got all these jokes but no mental stability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksHorriblePA/pseuds/JacksHorriblePA
Summary: A few too many sarsaparillas, four angry Khans, a bullet wound to the stomach, and one moody wasteland doctor.How could things get any worse for the Courier?
Relationships: Male Courier/Arcade Gannon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Sweatin’ Cola

**Author's Note:**

> This was just something super self-indulgent because my own mental health is on a, you could say, Rapid Decline™ and I needed a fix-it fic for my life. So here ya go. 
> 
> These boys are gay in the middle of the desert and the sun is a homophobe, and that’s really all there is to know. 
> 
> Other than, of course, that the courier would quicker shit himself than talk about his feelings. 
> 
> Enjoy~

“Goddamn, it’s hot out here.” 

Arcade rolled his eyes, wiping fresh streaks of sweat off his brow. “Oh, you're telling me….” 

Ander looked up to a cloudless sky with his palm held up, shadowing his eyes from the sun’s harmful rays. “I mean, shit, I thought yesterday was hot.” He kicked a pebble with the tip of his boot, sighing. “Woulda’ packed more Sarsaparilla....”

For a seasoned courier, especially after all the chaos he’s managed to get himself in and out of, Arcade assumed Ander would be better suited for this. 

Ander toppled over, grabbing his knees and heaving. They couldn’t have been more than a mile or two from the Khan outpost they’d been contracted by the NCR to clear out and Ander was already close to falling over. 

Arcade was wrong, it seemed. 

“Fucking sun.” Ander continued to mutter to himself, cursing the sun as well as the overwhelming lack of clouds above them. “Can’t do shit… if this doesn’t let up… take me back to Zion…” 

Arcade leaned against a bone-dry tree and crossed his arms. “I told you to pack water instead of soda.” 

Ander let out a frustrated grunt. “Fifteen caps, cade’! Fifteen for half a canteen of shitty grey-water.” He pushed off of his knees and stood upright. “Who in their right mind would pay that much for water? Who in their right mind would make _others_ pay that much for water.” 

Arcade rolled his eyes again and sighed. Leave it to the courier to have a heatstroke over a mile of walking. 

“Think the sun’s rotted their brains more my than mine…” Ander walked past Arcade with the posture of a ghoul, wiping sweat off the back of his neck. “That’s it, we’re stopping.” 

“Excuse me—“ Arcade began. “We’re hardly even a mile out.” He jogged to the courier’s side. “Stopping now for something like this would be a complete waste of time.” 

“Well cade’,” Ander huffed a dramatic sigh. “I’m another minute under that goddamn sun away from having a heatstroke. So we’re stopping.” 

The courier’s voice was a high-pitched, southern tune. But his aversion to heat with a belly full of carbonated beverages made it tired and gravelly. 

“I tried to tell you.” Arcade shook his head and mumbled to himself. “ _But oh, Arcade, we don’t need water_ —“ 

“That’s right!” Ander threw his hands up and yelled dramatically. “We don’t need water when it’s overpriced—“ 

“— _Sarsaparilla isn’t hydrating. You’ll just get even thirstier_. I tried to tell you—“ 

Ander kicked a rock in his path frustratedly. “How was I supposed to know you were being serious? I thought you just didn’t like Sunset Sarsaparilla!” 

Arcade squinted at him incredulously. “I’m a _doctor_ , perhaps that would have been enough proof of my sincerity?” 

“You can’t blame that one me! I only followed my gut. I’ve seen you drinking cola, I know you prefer it over sarsaparilla!” Ander pointed a finger at his face. 

“What does that— okay, you know what? This one’s on you, not me.” Arcade crossed his arms. “I tried explaining—“ 

“Nah, not this time, no, you did this!” 

Arcade blinked at him. He couldn’t believe how dramatic the courier was being right now, and a part of him hoped it was just the sun finally boiling his brain like a deathclaw omelet. 

“Why would this be my fault when you—!” Arcade sighed and grabbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Okay, that’s fine. I’m not going to entertain you on this.” 

“Why’s Sarsaparilla gotta make me thirstier?” Ander cried to himself. “You should have—“ 

Arcade shot a wide-eyed look at him. “Go ahead, say I should have warned you—!“ 

A shot flew over their heads, striking the boney tree a few feet behind them. Both of them spun to the direction it came from. There were a few seconds of silence between them, complete stillness, before another whirled past and Ander pushed Arcade to the ground. 

“What the hell—“ Arcade grabbed the plasma pistol from his waist and looked towards the rust-colored hills in the distance. 

“Guess we were closer than we thought….”

Two shots cut through the air just above Ander’s head. He ducked and quickly crawled behind a broken-down truck on the side of the road. 

Ander looked at Arcade with a smile too broad for the circumstances. “You ready, doc?” He asked with an exasperated chuckle.

Arcade sat beside him, pistol drawn and ready to fire. “Just don’t get yourself killed, please.” He managed between shallow breaths. 

“Oh please,” Ander smirked. “If I played it safe every time we got caught up in a fight, you’d be outta business, doc.” 

Arcade was about to comment on his recklessness when a storm of bullets hailed over them. He could feel the metal against his back jolting with each impact. Every pellet leaving a new set of holes, some making it all the way through, others getting stuck somewhere between him and the entry-hole. 

Ander was the first to fire back. He leaned around the tail-end of the rusted old truck, firing at nothing in particular. Arcade peeked slowly around his end, straining his eyes at the horizon in an attempt to see whatever it was that was currently trying to kill them. 

Bullets zipped by, causing clouds of dust to envelope the two of them as they pelted the ground. 

Ander yelled and shot back. The distant desert rippled from the heat as objects became somewhat visible, faint but dark against the barren sand. 

Arcade could make out one figure and he fired as soon as he caught sight of it. Green energy broke through the thick heat that hovered so close to the ground. Someone somewhere cried out. 

“Nice shootin’ cade’!” Ander exclaimed quickly before returning his rifle to the storm of bullets. 

A bullet caught the metal just beside Arcade’s head. “Yeah… thanks.”

A well-placed shot from Ander’s rifle caught the leg of some unfortunate Khan, sending them to their knees. Arcade shot what he could see and ended up finishing the job. 

“Hell yeah!” Ander pumped his fist in the air. “Bet they’ll think twice before—“ 

A cluster of bullet holes appeared in the space between their heads and Ander looked at it wide-eyed for a few seconds. He glanced at Arcade reluctantly before leaning around the truck, ready to fire back. Before he could, another storm of bullets kicked up dust no more than a foot away from him. 

It sounded like someone ripping velcro, loud and unending.

“Shit,” Ander muttered to himself. “Fuckin’ minigun….” 

Glass shattered above Arcade’s head and little shards fell into his hair as he covered his face. “How are we going to handle this, Six?”

“Shit, I-“ More bullets flew by, nearly cutting the old pickup in half. “I didn’t think they’d have a goddamn minigun….” 

“Six!” Arcade yelled. “What’s it going to be?” 

There wasn’t any time to regret their decisions. They were in the middle of it now and the last thing either of them needed was to get caught up thinking about how this could have been avoided. 

“Uhh…. gimme a second.” Ander dropped his rifle to the ground and pulled his rucksack over his head. Arcade watched in confusion as he began to dig through it, all while bullets planted into the ground around them. 

“You uh, think we could hurry this up?” Arcade asked with wide eyes. The ripping sound loud as ever. 

Ander was muttering incoherently to himself as he tossed items onto the ground. “Fuck… shit… fuckin’ Khans….” 

“Ander!” 

Ander pulled a handheld mirror from the bag and waved it ecstatically in the air. “Yes! found it!”

Arcade eyed the mirror, cracked and mostly wrapped in duct tape. “A mirror? What— how is a mirror going to help us??” He was straining his voice yelling over the cacophonous rain of bullets. 

Ander didn’t respond. Instead, he held the mirror out just enough to see beyond their cover. There was a pair of dots in the distance, no bigger than caps in the reflection of the mirror, and they were becoming steadily clearer as they moved closer. “Aha! Got you….” Ander bit his lip in concentration as he tilted the mirror, trying to get a better angle on the pair of Khans. 

A stray bullet caught the center of the mirror, practically splitting it in half. 

Ander looked at it defeatedly for a second before dropping it into the dirt. “Well, shit.” 

Arcade tried blind-firing and was met with hefty retaliation. He leaned back against the hot metal of the old truck and swallowed. “Six,” He began, trying to maintain composure. “What’s it going to be?” His voice was shakier now. He wondered if this fight would finally be the one that would finish them. 

“Just uh… just let me think.” Ander looked around, searching for some way out. 

Bullets continued to rip through the collapsing frame of the truck. “Oh sure, just take your time.” Arcade exclaimed sarcastically. “Not like we’re being shot at or anything.” 

Ander’s head whipped towards Arcade with a bright expression. “I got it!” 

“Wha- what?” 

Ander grabbed his rifle, clutching it tightly to his chest like he was ready to jump out. He glanced around the tail of the truck and quickly leaned back when bullets just narrowly missed him. 

“What are you-“ 

Ander leaned in to Arcade’s face, looking him dead in the eye with an assured smile that worried Arcade more than it reassured him. 

“You think you can trust me, doc?” 

“I, uh— I mean— yes?” Arcade stammered reluctantly. 

“Alright!” Ander’s smile grew even bigger. “I need you to run out there.” 

Any and all faith that Arcade had in the courier’s half-baked plan had completely faded in a second. “You need— you what? 

“Yeah! It’ll be like….” Ander looked around and thought for a moment. “It’ll be like that story you was tellin me about.” Ander exclaimed. “Ya know, the one about that guy— and he led the other guy through hell or whatever. What was his name…”

Arcade’s brow was screwed tight in confusion. “How is this in any way like Dante’s inferno?” 

“Dante! It’ll be like Dante and that other guy, uh, Virgin or something. You just jump out and I’ll start shooting. You’re just gonna have to lead the way for us both, like that guy!”

Arcade shook his head rapidly. “No. No. I’m not just- just jumping out for them to fill me full of holes. You can’t shoot fast enough and I can’t run quickly enough to avoid their bullets. It’s not happening.” 

Ander just looked at him for a few seconds, silently, then to the ground, then back to Arcade. He sighed. “Okay, then it’s gonna have to be me.” 

“It’s- what? No, that’s not what I—“ Arcade tried to protest but Ander was already to his feet, crouched against maroon-tinted metal and seconds away from leaping out. 

“No, wait! I’m serious, you’ll get yourself—“ 

Ander threw his rifle to the ground and booked it. Arcade just hardly missed the fabric of his duster, his fingertips barely grazing the tail-end of his coat. He stammered to his feet, firing at nothing as fast as he could. 

Sweat streaked down his face and he cursed to himself. “Damn it.”

The courier was right about one thing though, they weren’t shooting at the truck anymore. Instead, a trail of bullets followed the courier close, as though it was his own boots that were kicking up clouds of dust three feet high behind him. 

Arcade could hear him yelling, cursing aloud as he sprinted away from the road. 

“Fuck— shit— damn it—!” He yelled as bullets zipped through the air at his heels. 

Arcade looked through the pickup’s busted windshield at a gas station about fifteen yards ahead of the courier. If he could just make it there, he might live long enough for Arcade to kick his ass. Until then…. Arcade looked towards the pair of Khans. One of them had a Minigun hoisted up at waist-level, giving Ander the famous spray-and-pray. 

He heard Ander yell out, reminding him of the task at hand. 

“Fuckin’ shoot em cade!”

If they didn’t kill the courier, Arcade would kill him himself. 

He took a quick breath and opened fire on the Khans. It didn’t take long for the one with a rifle to take notice of him and start firing back. One shot barely grazed him and he pulled back, breathing heavily before going back at it. 

He leaned back behind cover, giving the courier a glance to make sure he was still kicking. Sure enough, the courier was making distance, and fast. 

Arcade took another deep breath, trying to maintain a level-head, and fired back. A blast of green, hot energy landed square on the Khan’s stomach. He kneeled over, clutching his abdomen, and Arcade was certain he heard his cries even over the minigun. 

A few misses and one final hit, and the Khan was down. 

The remaining Khan with the minigun yelled out in anguish and Arcade barely had a moment to duck before a cluster of bullets hailed over him. 

The sound of metal on metal made his ears ring. High-caliber shots shook the pickup, spraying clear lines through its frame until there was hardly anything left for Arcade to hide behind. He put his hands over his ears and leaned into his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. 

Bullets whirred past him, missing their target by mere inches until suddenly, everything went quiet. 

Arcade waited for a few seconds, and then a few more. He pulled his hands away from his ears, listening intently for the rain of fire to continue. Maybe they were reloading…?

“S’ alright Cade’!” A voice yelled out from the distance. “I took- I took care of em.”

“I’ll be damned….” Arcade muttered to himself. He pushed off the ground, dusting off his followers’ coat. 

He walked out from behind the truck. In the distance, unmoving and flat on the ground, was the Khan. His minigun discarded beside him. Ever so slowly, a smile grew on Arcade’s face. That was, until his eyes finally landed on the courier who was leaning against a gas pump tiredly. 

He cupped his hands around his mouth like a funnel, yelling to Arcade through labored breaths from across the desert. “Can you—“ His voice faltered with a hearty sigh. “Can you bring my rifle?” The weathered doctor could see Ander clutching a small, one-shot pistol in his hand, which he promptly dropped into the dirt. 

Arcade shook his head with a disbelieving smile and picked up the courier’s rifle, running his thumb over the small “SIX” carved into the stock. He slung it over his shoulder and leaned down to pick up the rucksack, piling its contents back into the frayed bag. 

He started off towards the courier, still shaking his head slightly in disbelief. Once he got within ear-shot of the courier and he was finally able to see the man still breathing, his relieved disbelief turned to anger. 

“You know,” Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose. “I almost thought— and how did you— that was nothing like Inferno—“ He was talking more to himself than the courier but regardless of who heard it, he had a lot to say to the courier for being so reckless. “You could have gotten killed.  
You know that? I mean who just runs out, in the middle of a firefight, like it’s nothing?” 

His fist balled in the fabric of the rucksack. “I’m surprised you didn’t get blasted to hell, Six. Christ knows they could have—“ 

Ander began coughing, loud and breathless, interrupting Arcade’s well-meant tangent. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, doc….” Ander put all his weight against the gas pump before sliding down it, landing flat on his ass in the dirt. He coughed again and it was then that Arcade noticed a pool of blood coming from his lower- left abdomen. 

“Jesus.” Arcade dropped everything and kneeled beside the courier. 

Ander grinned giddily, failing to stifle a quick giggle, and clasped a hand over the side of his stomach. “I guess you were right, doc.” He admitted with feigned sincerity. 

“Did it go clean through?” Arcade ignored the courier. He grabbed the courier’s fingers, peeling them away from the small wound. “Move your hands, let me see.” 

Ander moved his other hand aside and let Arcade see the wound. He laughed out loud. “Pshh, it just barely grazed me, doc.” His laughter grew as he spoke, his voice suddenly steady and clear. “I just wanted to scare ya.” 

Arcade looked at the courier’s stomach. Sure enough, what he thought was a hole turned out to be nothing more than a deep graze. 

Arcade blinked at him wide-eyed for a few beats, looking from Ander, to the wound, and back to Ander. His face settled into a deep frown. Meanwhile, Ander was having the time of his life. 

“D’aww cade’, you were worried about me.” He pointed a bloody finger at Arcade’s face which was quickly swatted away. Arcade returned to his feet and the courier just sat there, laughing to himself. 

Arcade crossed his arms and looked into the distance, squinting at the dead Khans. 

After Ander’s laughter faded into little more than hearty chuckles, Arcade finally looked at him. “Are you done?” He asked flatly. 

Ander sighed. “Oh lighten up, doc. The bullet hardly grazed me.” 

Arcade couldn’t begin to convey the rollercoaster of emotions that the courier had forced him to go through. Panic, worry, straight up fear. So he said nothing for a moment. 

“Right.” Arcade noticed the gas station. It was boarded up and looked a little worse for wear but the sun was a few hours away from setting and regardless of how severe the courier’s wound was or wasn’t, it still needed attention. Infections weren’t a pretty thing in the wasteland 

Arcade picked up the courier’s rucksack and threw it over his shoulder. He leaned down for the rifle, grabbing it just as the courier spoke up. 

“Nah, Cade’, I got Six.” 

Arcade looked at him for a few seconds before the courier continued. 

“M’ serious, doc. Lemme take her.” He assured. 

“Alright then.” Arcade released the rifle and stood upright. He glanced at the station over his shoulder before looking back down at the courier. “I’m gonna go set up, make sure it’s safe—“

“No, I can do it.” Ander leaned forward, planting a hand on his knee and attempting to push himself up. “I’m serious—“ 

What happened instead was the courier clutching his side. A jolt of pain coursing through his stomach. 

“Little graze shouldn’t hurt this much….” He fell back against the pump and grabbed his side, sighing in annoyance. 

Arcade leaned down and offered his hand. “If you need help—“ 

“No, I’m fine.” Dust clung to the blood on his palm as he pushed off of the ground once again.  
“I should be able to handle this.” 

He barely had time to brace himself against the pump before another wave of pain shot like an arrow through his abdomen. 

“Goddamn it.” He cursed to himself as Arcade appeared by his side, sliding the courier’s arm over his shoulder. “Fucking Khans….” 

Arcade’s face became twisted with worry once again. He knew that it wasn’t life-threatening, yet a part of him couldn’t help but care too much. 

“Wait, Six.” Ander stooped, picking up the dusty rifle. He held it in one hand as Arcade carried the two of them to the entrance of the Gas station. 

The inside was about what was to be expected. Dusty and dark. Collapsed and filthy. The windows had no glass, instead they were boarded up. The roof had holes and blotches of mold darkened one far corner. 

The toe of Arcade’s boot caught on a nail sticking straight up out of the floor. 

“What a lovely place.” 

Arcade nodded and leaned the courier against a wall towards the back of the store, behind dusty shelves and displays.

“Oh, doc.” Ander smiled with a hint of delirium. “You spoil me.” 

Arcade scoffed, gently lowering the courier to the floor. 

“No, seriously, you shouldn’t have.”

“No, seriously,” Arcade mocked. “You can stop now.” 

“Ouch. Alright.” 

Arcade said nothing. He set the courier’s rucksack down beside him and turned towards the exit without a word. He barely caught the courier’s muttered complaint. 

“Damn stingy followers….”

The sun hitting his face so suddenly felt like a blast of gamma from a fresh nuke; it was hot and exhausting. The inside of the station wasn’t much better, being the stagnant pile of corrugated walls and rubble that it is, and it sure is lacking what few gusts of wind the wasteland manages to give. But at the very least, it has shade. 

He looked around until he caught sight of the bodies laid out on the horizon. He took a heavy sigh of thick desert air and started walking. 

Arcade hated brooding. He despised the whole ordeal of growing bitter and petty over something as trivial as a mishap or a snide comment from some passing scavver. But this was different. His walk to the bodies gave him time to brood, the exact thing he didn’t want to succumb to, as enticing as it may be. 

He nudged the Khans with his boot, making sure they weren’t about to need any double-taps or get any not-so-bright ideas about picking that minigun back up. After a few moments of kicking a limp, gross dead guy, and Arcade realizing how stupid that was, he turned them over and began searching. 

He growled to himself in annoyance. It wasn’t his fault that the courier was so damn reckless with his life but— if he could just convince him, or maybe if he’d just said something different— their situation would likely be a lot less strained right now. 

A couple blue caps in the smaller Khan’s back pocket… a few clips inside of his ammo bag…. 

If anything, it was the courier’s fault. Since the day Arcade got roped into fighting, traveling, and otherwise causing trouble alongside the famed Courier Six, he’s had nothing but migraines and sunburns. The courier was a sight for sore eyes back then; he was still drinking and a little more difficult at the time. But these days, he’s somewhat more controlled. Controlled isn’t exactly the word Arcade would use— maybe something akin to mellow, or tame— but he still manages to find cause to give Arcade his fair share of wrinkles and miniature heart attacks on the daily. 

Two colas inside the second Khan’s traveling pack… one bottle of Day Tripper and a Med-X syringe…. 

He couldn’t keep doing this to himself, to the courier, and act like it wasn’t having an effect. The courier was too reckless, flat-out. It was driving Arcade over the edge with worry that he didn’t want to admit was rooted in something akin to a loving concern. Not to himself just yet, anyway. 

Arcade dropped the last dead Khan’s torso back to the ground with a sigh. “Amantium manet stultum.” He muttered to himself. 

He strode off back to the gas station. Back to the injured and waiting courier.

Ander greeted him inside with open arms from his spot on the floor, until holding them out strained his side too much and he had to revert back to nursing his wound with shaky hands.

Arcade searched around behind the register, looking for supplies and whatever else might come up that could be of use. 

Ander leaned over as far as he could without falling over, trying to see around a shelf a few feet in front of him. 

“Cade’? My wound’s getting gangrene I think.” He shouted with a breathy chuckle. 

Arcade rolled his eyes as he sifted through a drawer beneath the counter. 

Brooding was just plain stupid, right? 

He returned to the courier with a pair of dirty scissors and a look on his face that Ander couldn’t quite discern. 

The courier grinned at the doctor kneeling in front of him. “You make all your patients wait this long, doc?” 

“Shut up, you insufferable fool.” He wanted to say. But that felt a little to harsh.

“No, just you.” He replied instead. 

He pulled the courier’s clothes off until his chest was barren and exposed, revealing scars, burns, divots, and tattoos that Arcade had never seen before. At least not in this light, not under circumstances where he wasn't focused on something else. There was a lot he wanted to say to the courier right now, especially now. But he pushed it all down and began to work. 

After cutting a few bandages, shining a light on the wound, disinfecting, wrapping, and covering. The courier was good as new. Almost. He certainly didn’t seem any different, just a little worse for wear. He babbled incessantly the whole time, rambling and telling stories, and Arcade could only roll his eyes. 

Arcade washed his hands with some alcohol, his back turned to the courier as he continued to ramble. 

“And I told him— Cade, I literally told him— take the hat off or Rex’ll bite your ass. You know what he said?” 

“No. What?” He replied flatly. 

Ander put on his best “Mean wastelander” voice and continued. “You can bite my ass, courier!” 

The courier through his hands up, exasperated, though Arcade didn’t see it. “So— Rex bit his ass, just like I told him.” 

Arcade was busy contemplating just how, under what circumstances and at the behest of what divine intervention, had he managed to fall in love with such a ridiculously eccentric idiot. 

“I mean, he lost his fedora and and a chunk of his left asscheek but-but I’m sure he thought it was as funny as I did.” Ander laughed to himself. He looked to the back of Arcade’s head, still turned to him, and his laugh slowly faded. 

Silence enveloped them and for a moment, a brief but oh-so-savored moment, Arcade wondered if he was finally done. And then….

“Oh! And did I mention that the guy was the leader of some Jackal gang too? Didn’t even know it at the time until this guy at a bar mentioned it to me and I—“ 

Arcade dried his hands and muttered in annoyance under his breath. “insanus et stultus esse….”

Ander broke from his story for a moment, looking at Arcade. He made a sound of inquiry at the doctor. 

“I’m gonna go look around for supplies outside.” 

The door closed behind him before the courier could protest. 

Arcade leaned against the outside wall of the gas station, dropping his traveling pack to the ground. He sighed and let his head fall on the hot metal against his back.   
An incessant feeling was growing in his chest, one that he despised, as hot as the sun above and frustratingly ever-present; some unholy mixture, as he would assume, between love and extreme annoyance. All for one man.   
Beams of searing heat broke through the many cracks in the pavilion above the station. Arcade felt sedated by the heat, lulling him into an exhausted sleep. He closed his eyes against the bright, warm shine on his face, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep. 

  
When he eventually awoke, it was dark. He strained his eyes trying to peer through the night. For a few seconds, he’d forgotten that the wasteland had more than freezing-cold nights and starry skies to offer after sunset. He figured it best to go inside.   
When he entered the station, the courier was covered by his bedroll, asleep, as Arcade would assume. 

He sidled through the room, avoiding trash and debris under his feet. The last thing he wanted right now was to wake the courier. Either because he’d talk Arcade’s ear off to fill the disquiet silence between them, or because Arcade would have to explain to him just how much of an idiot he is. Loveable or not….

Arcade lowered himself to the floor beside Ander, rummaging through a bag to find his own bedroll. 

He plopped it down behind the courier and nestled inside, reveling in the newfound warmth. His face was right behind Ander’s head, and from his point of view, all he could see was brown tufts of unruly hair.

Arcade sighed and closed his eyes. 

The courier can’t help being as scattered as he is. Arcade didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to know that a couple of bashes and bullets to the brain would more than likely leave someone with a few screws loose. He knew there was something different about him from their first conversation. Not different in a bad way, necessarily. Just different. He wouldn’t be the famous Courier Six if he wasn’t a little different. 

Arcade found his eyes opening, locking on to the sleeping courier in front of him. The scarred head inches from his face. The shallow hum of his breathing. The navy-blue, frayed fabric of a bedroll still halfway unzipped.

He reached out before he could think not to and gently tousled brown locks. 

His hair was warm, disheveled and slightly greasy; grown beyond its proper length with bald spots from scars or singed on the ends by laser-fire. Arcade carded through every visible strand until his fingers were brushing against the shell of the courier’s ear.

Ander hummed quietly, something between a groan and a whine. 

Arcade’s hand stilled. He listened for a moment, watching the mound of bedroll rise and fall in a slow rhythm. The soft sighs from Ander pushed his fingers to resume, continuing to nestle and sort between unruly tufts. 

This didn’t have to be so comforting. Arcade assumed it shouldn’t be. But for him, the feeling felt like a sudden addiction, something he never wanted to stop. It was relaxing. 

He yawned and pulled hair between his fingers. The pads of his fingers trailed gently down Ander’s head, settling at the base of his skull. Arcade could feel a slight bulge beneath the skin. He pressed into it just slightly with a curious look, feeling the lump beneath his fingers. Through the dark, he could see a faint discoloration over the spot, white and faded pink, skin raised and rough along a jagged line. 

Arcade’s mouth opened with a quiet gasp. He’d never seen this scar before. 

His trained fingers pressed firmly against the flesh to feel what he concluded to be a metal plate, held in place by hard screws. Ander had told him about Big MT once, about his scars, the heart he’d lost and the brain that was stolen by insane, penis-obsessed scientists with a knack for lobotomizing strangers. It was all very enthralling as far as stories go. Arcade laughed in his face and assumed that half of it was fake. 

Seeing it now though, where the scar is placed, perfectly at the base of his cranium, it told him a different story. 

His fingers felt the line as it trailed both up and down his spine and the center of the courier’s head. The scar became faint the further up it went, but it was there, unmistakable in its jagged, rough nature. 

It looked to Arcade like Ander wasn’t lying. Arcade knew about the surgery he’d had after the whole Benny fiasco, the big one that he assumed had been the great defining factor in Ander’s general erratic disposition that he oh-so-loves to terrorize Arcade with. 

The jaggedness beneath his fingers felt like a hot embarrassment. Bashfulness with a small helping of shame. Arcade had assumed that he’d called Ander’s bluff. Seemed he was wrong. That had to be a scar from a major surgery, precise and perfect. Arcade could pride himself on his own skills but even he had to admit, there isn’t a doctor in the wasteland to speak of with skills as good as these. Doc Mitchell was a lucky find, but this— this was perfection. 

Arcade’s chest ached with regret. It didn’t feel entirely like the courier could really help it. No— he couldn’t. He wasn’t broken, but he wasn’t entirely whole by any means. These scars were proof. Arcade just had to accept that. He tilted his head forward and pulled his body closer to the courier in one motion. His hand gently gripped the side of Ander’s head, pulling the exposed skin to Arcade’s lips. He placed a quick peck on the courier’s neck. 

He listened for a stir, but Ander was silent. Arcade leaned in again, hesitantly, and placed another soft kiss above the scar, telling the courier with every second of contact how sorry he was.

He sighed through his nose, eyeing the skin before leaning back in once again. His lips lingered as he thought— ‘I am sorry.’

Another one, for every rushed mission. Once again, longer this time, for every curious question tactfully dodged. For every lie and every put-down. A peck for each regret. 

Arcade’s lips were pressed against Ander’s neck, warm and soft and savoring every second. He closed his eyes as he trailed gentle kisses across Ander’s skin, covering the expanse of his shoulder. His mouth mapped out every divot in his skin, each burn and amalgamation of holes and scrapes. He whispered to the courier’s back with tense concentration. 

“I’m sorry, me unum atque unicum.” 

Arcade moved his hand under the courier’s shirt as he trailed down his back. He could feel the bumps of his weathered companion’s spine, everything from his neck to his tailbone, rubbing tentative circles over the length of his back and gently caressing every scar along the way. Each digit felt like a new story to him, as well as a newfound guilt, ones which he felt he had to make amends for. When his hand settled flat on Ander’s shoulder blade, he stilled suddenly as a hand clasped over his, holding it with a small squeeze and a groggy, sleep-filled grumble. Arcade let out a quiet gasp. 

Ander looked at Arcade over his shoulder, so quick to lay his head back down that he hardly stopped to spare a tired, smirking glance before looking away. 

“You’re forgiven, doc. Long’ as you keep doin’ that thing you’ve been doin’.” 

Arcade felt a groan beginning to build up in his throat, annoyed beyond comprehension, but those not-so-pearly whites turned his groan of annoyance into one of merely slight protest. His heart had blossomed guilt that enveloped him internally, engulfing everything like flames. Yet his love— love— for Ander mingled with it. He had to make things different. Right now. 

No more brooding. 

Arcade scoffed breathily, halfway feigning true annoyance. “You are so, so very annoying,” Nevertheless, he resumed the tentative trails up and down Ander’s back, once again savoring every mark. “You know that, right?” 

“Mhm” Ander grumbled. “S’ why you love me.”

That word made Arcade shudder. Love. To think it, feel it, that was one thing. To have it acknowledged? Well… The pressure he was applying on the courier’s back lessened just a bit as he emotionally took a step back. He took a deep breath and resumed the newly-familiar rhythm. 

“No, actually, it’s not.” Arcade huffed. 

Ander pulled up his bedroll and nestled deeper into the blanket, his face hidden from Arcade’s angle but framed by blue, frayed fabric. It didn’t seem like he was really paying any mind to Arcade through the thick veil of sleep that was still ever-present, looming heavy over his eyelids. Nonetheless, he mumbled something incoherent that Arcade could only take as a query. 

He furrowed his brow as he stared at the back of Ander’s head. “Honestly—” his voice began high, strong and determined, but lowered quickly as he realized that this wasn’t meant to be a scolding. “Everything about how you carry yourself annoys me. Everything from your carelessness,” Arcade rubbed an index over one very defined scar. “To your belligerence in the face of conflict,” He paused and let out a deep sigh. “To your simple disregard of my input when it’s clearly needed.”

Arcade’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, as his fingers gently circled Ander’s muscles, finding trails in the unusually loose flesh. “You have no regard for your own safety.” 

Arcade’s voice held a sternness that he’d never been able to drop, but that concern… well, he hoped it leaked through the tougher cracks.

“You should know what kind of position that puts me in when I’m forced to be the very flimsy wall between you and whatever you’re currently trying to throw yourself at.” 

He stared at Ander’s unruly hair in silence. Arcade tried to think of other points that he’d previously been waiting to make but at this very moment, he wasn’t sure if any of it would actually soak through, especially when delivered while Ander was half asleep, if not already sleeping. 

“But, I get it. You just...” Arcade went silent for a moment, thoughtfully ”Can’t help yourself.” He admitted defeatedly with a frown. 

Arcade sighed and leaned in close to Ander’s head. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead softly against tufts of unkempt, unruly hair. His breath tickled the back of the courier’s neck with each even exhale. 

Arcade was sure his complaints— his worries— had fallen on deaf, unconscious ears. His hands stuttered to a halt as he felt the weight of tomorrow, full of mishaps and miscommunications that would surely put a damper on their dynamic with abandon, sure to come to fruition. He slid his hands past Ander’s back, over his hips and up his stomach, nestled deep beneath the pit of his arms and covered by layers of fabric that separated their bodies. 

Arcade could hold the unconscious courier now, at least knowing that here, in this moment, there was no danger. No bullets-a-million, Khans or Fiends or Legion or missions to botch or worry-lines to collect at each mis-step and badly-planned course of action. He wouldn’t explain why but Ander didn’t know either, just how much this whole arrangement sucked, and yet how much he needed it.   
Arcade sighed and pulled Ander closer, crossing his arms around the other man and sighing deeply into his hair. 

“Amica mea,” Arcade gritted his teeth with a soft frown and a chest full of worries. “I’m sorry.” 

Ander’s eyes were puffy with emotion, prickly at the corners and filled with confliction. He had guilt too, heaps of confused emotions inside him that entered his mind and fled just as quickly, brought about by a few too many bullets to the brain. He couldn’t help anything that he’d done. He can’t change it now and his brain won’t magically fix itself to accommodate Arcade. He wished it would. He really did. 

Ander wrinkled his brow with frustration. He closed his eyes and tried to think with the muddled mess of the more cognitive parts of his brain as to what would magically fix this. What would kiss the wound and make all this better. For a moment, he thought, maybe a magical immediate fix wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Maybe that’s why it never happened like that anyway. 

Ander cleared his throat. “Well, doc, I’m not gonna lie—“ he grabbed Arcade’s forearms that we’re gripped tightly around his chest, firm but soft. “You're soundin’ a little desperate.” 

Arcade’s eyes fluttered open with surprise and he listened for his companion, wondering if he heard right. 

“I mean I—“ He chuckled half-heartedly. “I thought I was pathetic, but you-“ 

Ander’s voice was laden with faux sarcasm. It was the kind that Arcade had heard enough times that he could never mistake it for true cynicism. 

“-you’re just— hah, I mean… you…you just….” 

Arcade heard Ander’s voice trickle in volume, filling with a meek emotion and feebly fading out into nothing. He could also hear a faint, unsure chuckle as he tried to force every last ounce of confidence out of himself. After a while, though, he didn’t hear much of anything. 

Ander’s shoulders shook ever so slightly. Arcade had to mentally do a double-take, wondering if it wasn’t just him. He felt it again, stronger this time and followed by another bout of shakes. 

Arcade had never seen the courier cry. 

Arcade’s heart clamored against his chest, beating heavy and hard through puddles of guilt and conflicted emotions. He’d never seen it, but he was sure feeling it now. 

“Funny how you aren’t a psycho-therapy doctor or whatever a-and yet—“ Ander’s voice broke away as he rubbed the palm of his hand into his face. “And yet here you are, dealing with me like—like you signed up for this.” 

He jabbed his palm into one eye, until the other eye was crying enough for both and he ripped his other hand out of his bedroll, covering both with heavy pressure. 

“No, that’s— you know that’s not true.” Arcade assured Ander through a cracking voice, muffled by hair and fabric. 

Arcade pulled Ander closer and squeezed. The courier’s assumption that he was inherently burdensome got a rise out of Arcade, momentary as it was, but he knew that this wasn’t the time to chide. It was meant for corrections. 

He shoved his face into Ander’s hair, kissing the tanned head beneath it. Kissing after each word no matter how the past reminded him of its possible pointlessness. 

“You aren’t— wrong— for feeling— how you do.” Arcade let one hand leave his courier’s body, instead pulling gently at the hair on his head and brushing it behind his ear. “You’ve never been a burden so don’t— don’t tell me that.” 

“I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t be.” Arcade planted soft lips on the shell of Ander’s ear. “I’m here because I love you, not because I feel pity for you.” 

Suddenly, the courier was sitting up. Arcade’s hand fell from Ander’s head, gripping his side and clutching whatever fabric he could get a hold of. 

“It’s just so— I don’t— I—“ 

Arcade sat up quickly and positioned himself behind Ander, flush against his back and holding him once again. 

“Stop, hey—“ Arcade spoke lowly in his ear. “Take your time.” 

Ander sniffled. “I just… I wish I could be different for you. I can’t remember what it was like before and it’s— Cade’, it’s so damn scary when things just… slip away.” 

“I know… I know….” Arcade interlaced their fingers with his hands on top of the courier’s and began swaying their bodies soothingly in tandem. 

“I tried writin’ shit down, tried making them real, physical but— but it never— the memories never felt the same. They never felt real. And I’m scared that one day I won’t be real anymore.” 

Ander’s grip tightened. “I’m scared you’ll see that I'm not me anymore. Scared cause— cause I make things so damn hard sometimes….” 

“I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t see you any differently than I always have. But you aren’t a burden either, so get that out of your head.” 

“I’m trying….“ 

“Listen to me,” Arcade whispered over the courier’s shoulder. “I will never fear who you are. You’ve changed, sure, but that’s fine. I’ve been here with you and I’ve seen you persevere. You’re the strongest, stubbornest courier I’ve ever met and there’s a reason that half the Mojave fears you.” 

Ander chuckled sorrowfully through snot and tears. “You got it all wrong, doc. I think— I think a bit of me has chipped off for every soul out here that fears me.” 

“Don’t say that.” Arcade moved to look the courier in the face, reveling for a short moment in his red-framed eyes. “You’ve given these people— Vegas and Freeside— more charity than they could ever repay.” Arcade’s eyes lowered. “You’ve given me more time than I deserve.” 

Ander shook his head and looked to the floor. 

“And listen— you don’t have to be afraid of changing, not with me.” 

“It’s not just you.” 

“I know that. I’m saying that while I’m here, as long as I’m around you, with you, you don’t have to be afraid of who you are with me.” 

Arcade’s lips turned to a smile, warm and patient. He placed a hand on the courier’s cheek and wiped away glistening streaks as they fell. “You aren’t— I don’t know— becoming.” Arcade’s voice fell to a stern whisper. “You are you. You can’t help what’s been done to you and you surely can’t change how it’s made you, ugly parts and all, but don’t let it make you feel ashamed.” 

Ander’s eyes looked like dinner plates, all big and beady and filled with shimmering emotions. He grabbed Arcade’s forearm and leaned into his grasp with fluttering eyes, unknowingly making the doctor’s heart stutter. 

His eyes shut tight, pushing out droves of salty fluid. “I— I’m just scared, Cade’.” 

Arcade sighed sorrowfully. “I know. But you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Ander nodded reluctantly. “It’s just so fuckin’ hard. Harder these days… to understand why.”

Arcade thumbed away a tear. “It doesn’t have to be as hard as you say it is. But I need to hear you when it is.” Arcade sighed through his nose and restated— “It doesn’t have to be hard. Actiones secundum fidei.” 

Ander chuckled through a mucus-laden throat and grinned with tear-stained lips. “Cade’, your damned Latin again.” 

Arcade rolled his eyes half-heartedly. “Actiones secundum fidei— action follows belief. We act according to what we believe ourselves to be, but trust me, you aren’t your fears.”

Ander’s eyes fell to the floor. He sighed through his nose and his breath caught, blocked by mucus. His mouth opened with a small whine of anguish and Arcade’s heart hurt for him. 

If I'd only known…. Arcade couldn’t help but imagine what the courier’s mind was like. Everything that he’s had to deal with, all the decisions he’s had to make for so many people, all while dealing with such inner distress, hidden behind shit-eating grins and nonchalant attitudes, covering up months of pain and confusion. Arcade couldn’t do it himself if he tried. 

Arcade knew without a doubt that the courier, even in all his stubborn glory, really is the strongest person that he’s ever known. 

“You aren’t doing this alone. Remember that.  
Remember that I’m here with you, no matter what happens.” Arcade assured him with a smile. 

Ander looked into Arcade’s eyes, seeing all of his honest emotion reflected back at him tenfold with more love than he thought he deserved, and the love inside him fought valiantly against his fears, overcoming with flying colors. 

The courier shook his head with an incredulous, soft smile, and turned his body to Arcade, wrapping his arms around the other man like he’d never let go. 

“Shit, Cade’,” The courier muffled through Arcade’s shirt. “I’d of known you’d be such a brown-noser, I would’ve brought you along much earlier.” 

Arcade scoffed as he rubbed soothing circles over Ander’s back. “If someone would have warned me about you beforehand, I would have never agreed to come along.” 

“Oh please,” the Ander laughed. “Overt flirtation, Cade, remember? You’da never stood a chance either way.” 

The two of them laughed together. 

Ander titled his head into the crook of Arcade’s neck, whispering softly. “Thank you….” 

Arcade stilled for a moment until he smiled warmly, holding his courier even tighter. “Of course.” 

They held the other close, swaying occasionally with soft, even breaths and a warm adoration between them. 

Arcade eventually tapped Ander’s back with his palm softly and pushed the courier away slowly. His eyes met Ander’s as he spoke. 

“Why don’t you lay back down and I get us a drink?” 

Ander gasped and clutched the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Alcohol? Me and you? Scandalous.” 

Arcade’s brow was quick to lower as his features turned into a glare. He pushed off of the floor and onto his feet towards a bag of provisions. “Oh sure, I’m just hoping that if I get you drunk fast enough, you’ll pass out and I’ll finally get some silence.” 

Ander cackled and wiped tear stains from his cheeks. “Please, I’d like to see you try and put me to sleep, doc.” 

Arcade smiled to himself as he rifled through the duffle until he found two bottles of of Nuka-Cola. He turned around and tossed one into the courier’s arms, popping the cap off of his on a metal shelf before he sat down beside the other man. 

Ander was already sipping from his, head leaned back and chin upturned with eyes pressed shut. Arcade watched him drink and saw how what little light that was in the room glistened off of his cheeks from residual tears. 

The courier has always been one to drink recklessly, even when it’s not alcohol. Arcade wanted to always see him drink like that— carefree and reckless like the world didn’t have a heap of troubles waiting for him.   
Arcade tore his eyes away from the courier and took a swig of his Cola, eventually mimicking Ander’s posture as he did so. 

The two separated from their drinks at the same time and both sighed heavily with relief. Arcade titled his in his hand and looked at the year labeled beneath the neck of the bottle. 

Arcade quirked a brow. “This one’s not even flat. Hm.” 

Ander made a noise of agreement and balled the bedroll’s blanket in his lap. He leaned against Arcade and rested his arms on the thick fabric. His hands fumbled with the bottle as Arcade wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. He eyed his Cola bottle as Arcade sighed contently. 

“Could’ve at least been subtle about it….” Ander muttered. 

Arcade looked down at him with a curious expression. “What?” 

Ander held up his bottle by the neck with the label face-forward and grinned toothily. “That ya’ do secretly prefer Cola over Sarsaparilla.”

Arcade rolled his eyes hard and groaned. “You're insufferable.” 

Ander cackled like a hyena and sighed like he’d never been prouder of himself. “I know.” He responded with a chin held high. 

Arcade shook his head, taking a particularly long swig to hide his beaming grin. 

The weathered courier and his doting companion went silent for a few savorable seconds, cherishing the silence between them that managed to drown out the harsh, deafening violence of the outside world. That is, until the courier couldn’t help but interrupt it with nonsensical jokes and humorous anecdotes that would make even a deaf man wish for silence. Arcade though, he just listened, nodded along and shook his head when it was necessary, groaned after each terrible joke and overused story that he’d probably heard a time or two in the past, and smiled warmly at his courier everytime the opportunity presented himself. 

Arcade wouldn’t pretend to know what was happening 24/7 inside Ander’s mind, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t gonna make sure that he’d be there for every second of it all, ready to be a support when the courier needed something to fall back on. After all they’ve been through, nothing would make him happier. 

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever been really, really hot and decided to drink soda to rehydrate and soon realized that it doesn’t help? Me neither. 
> 
> This was really just a self-indulgent fic but I do adore these boys and I did enjoy making this, so please, leave kudos if you enjoyed and don’t be afraid to point out any plot holes, errors, misspellings or general shitty story-telling that I could fix.


End file.
